University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
ISRAEL IN THE LION'S DEN.

HARASSED day and night, hunted from food and sleep,
driven from hole to hole like a fox in the woods, with
no chance to earn an hour's wages, he was at last advised
by one whose sincerity he could not doubt, to apply, on
the good word of Sir John Millet, for a berth as laborer
in the King's Gardens at Kew. There, it was said, he
would be entirely safe, as no soldier durst approach those
premises to molest any soul therein employed. It struck
the poor exile as curious, that the very den of the British
lion, the private grounds of the British King, should be
commended to a refugee as his securest asylum.

His nativity carefully concealed, and being personally
introduced to the chief gardener by one who well knew
him; armed, too, with a line from Sir John, and recommended
by his introducer as uncommonly expert at horticulture;
Israel was soon installed as keeper of certain less
private plants and walks of the park.

It was here, to one of his near country retreats, that,
coming from perplexities of state—leaving far behind him

the dingy old bricks of St. James—George the Third was
wont to walk up and down beneath the long arbors formed
by the interlockings of lofty trees.

More than once, raking the gravel, Israel through intervening
foliage would catch peeps in some private but
parallel walk, of that lonely figure, not more shadowy
with overhanging leaves than with the shade of royal
meditations.

Unauthorized and abhorrent thoughts will sometimes invade
the best human heart. Seeing the monarch unguarded
before him; remembering that the war was imputed more
to the self-will of the King than to the willingness of parliament
or the nation; and calling to mind all his own
sufferings growing out of that war, with all the calamities
of his country; dim impulses, such as those to which the
regicide Ravaillac yielded, would shoot balefully across
the soul of the exile. But thrusting Satan behind him,
Israel vanquished all such temptations. Nor did these
ever more disturb him, after his one chance conversation
with the monarch.

As he was one day gravelling a little by-walk, wrapped
in thought, the King turning a clump of bushes,
suddenly brushed Israel's person.

Immediately Israel touched his hat—but did not remove
it—bowed, and was retiring; when something in his air
arrested the King's attention.

“You ain't an Englishman,—no Englishman—no, no.”

Pale as death, Israel tried to answer something; but
knowing not what to say, stood frozen to the ground.

“You are a Yankee—a Yankee,” said the King again in
his rapid and half-stammering way.

Again Israel assayed to reply, but could not. What
could he say? Could he lie to a King?

“Yes, yes,—you are one of that stubborn race,—that
very stubborn race. What brought you here?”

“The fate of war, sir.”

“May it please your Majesty,” said a low cringing voice,
approaching, “this man is in the walk against orders. There
is some mistake, may it please your Majesty. Quit the
walk, blockhead,” he hissed at Israel.

It was one of the junior gardeners who thus spoke. It
seems that Israel had mistaken his directions that morning.

“Slink, you dog,” hissed the gardener again to Israel;
then aloud to the King, “A mistake of the man, I assure
your Majesty.”

“Go you away—away with ye, and leave him with me,”
said the king.

Waiting a moment, till the man was out of hearing,
the king again turned upon Israel.

“Were you at Bunker Hill?—that bloody Bunker Hill
—eh, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fought like a devil—like a very devil, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Helped flog—helped flog my soldiers?”

“Yes, sir; but very sorry to do it.”

“Eh?—eh?—how's that?”

“I took it to be my sad duty, sir.”

“Very much mistaken—very much mistaken, indeed.

Why do ye sir me?—eh? I'm your king—your king.”

“Sir,” said Israel firmly, but with deep respect, “I have
no king.”

The king darted his eye incensedly for a moment; but
without quailing, Israel, now that all was out, still stood
with mute respect before him. The king, turning suddenly,
walked rapidly away from Israel a moment, but presently
returning with a less hasty pace, said, “You are rumored
to be a spy—a spy, or something of that sort—ain't you?
But I know you are not—no, no. You are a runaway
prisoner of war, eh? You have sought this place to be
safe from pursuit, eh? eh? Is it not so?—eh? eh? eh?”

“Sir, it is.”

“Well, ye're an honest rebel—rebel, yes, rebel. Hark
ye, hark. Say nothing of this talk to any one. And hark
again. So long as you remain here at Kew, I shall see
that you are safe—safe.”

“God bless your Majesty!”

“Eh?”

“God bless your noble Majesty?”

“Come—come—come,” smiled the king in delight, “I
thought I could conquer ye—conquer ye.”

“Not the king, but the king's kindness, your Majesty.”

“Join my army—army.”

Sadly looking down, Israel silently shook his head.

“You won't? Well, gravel the walk then—gravel away.
Very stubborn race—very stubborn race, indeed—very—
very—very.”

And still growling, the magnanimous lion departed.

How the monarch came by his knowledge of so humble

an exile, whether through that swift insight into individual
character said to form one of the miraculous qualities
transmitted with a crown, or whether some of the rumors
prevailing outside of the garden had come to his ear,
Israel could never determine. Very probably, though, the
latter was the case, inasmuch as some vague shadowy
report of Israel not being an Englishman, had, a little previous
to his interview with the king, been communicated
to several of the inferior gardeners. Without any impeachment
of Israel's fealty to his country, it must still be narrated,
that from this his familiar audience with George
the Third, he went away with very favorable views of that
monarch. Israel now thought that it could not be the
warm heart of the king, but the cold heads of his lords
in council, that persuaded him so tyrannically to persecute
America. Yet hitherto the precise contrary of this had
been Israel's opinion, agreeably to the popular prejudice
throughout New England.

Thus we see what strange and powerful magic resides
in a crown, and how subtly that cheap and easy magnanimity,
which in private belongs to most kings, may operate
on good-natured and unfortunate souls. Indeed, had it
not been for the peculiar disinterested fidelity of our
adventurer's patriotism, he would have soon sported the
red coat; and perhaps under the immediate patronage of
his royal friend, been advanced in time to no mean rank
in the army of Britain. Nor in that case would we have
had to follow him, as at last we shall, through long, long
years of obscure and penurious wandering.

Continuing in the service of the king's gardeners at Kew,

until a season came when the work of the garden required
a less number of laborers, Israel, with several others,
was discharged; and the day after, engaged himself for a
few months to a farmer in the neighborhood where he had
been last employed. But hardly a week had gone by,
when the old story of his being a rebel, or a runaway
prisoner, or a Yankee! or a spy, began to be revived
with added malignity. Like bloodhounds, the soldiers
were once more on the track. The houses where he harbored
were many times searched; but thanks to the fidelity
of a few earnest well-wishers, and to his own unsleeping
vigilance and activity, the hunted fox still continued to
elude apprehension. To such extremities of harassment,
however, did this incessant pursuit subject him, that in a
fit of despair he was about to surrender himself, and submit
to his fate, when Providence seasonably interposed in
his favor.